Geoffrey Anketell Studdert Kennedy

Non Angli Sed Angeli - Poem by Geoffrey Anketell Studdert Kennedy

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' not Angles merely but of angel stock,These boys blue-eyed and shining from the sea,Which like a silver girdle belts their home.Not slaves but souls, not tools to use,But men to love and lead and save for GodWho made them; and for that great King who diedThe death of shame and glory on the Cross.'So spake the master Christian of the world,Long years ago when, in the streets of RomeImperial, he met the ancestorsOf that yet greater Rome which was to be.So spake he, taught by Him to whose great soulThere were no slaves nor chattels in the worldBut only men and brothers. Sons of God,The last and greatest works of wondrous love,From whose eternal energy of painThe greatest and the least of things is sprung.So spake he, taught by Him who mirrored forthTo men's blind eyes that Love divine of God,Who, like a father, mourns the one lost son,And, like a faithful shepherd, wanders wideAcross the hills, and calls through dawnless darkThe one lost sheep that strays forth, from the fold.Christ lived in him, and he had learned full wellThe first and chiefest lesson of His life,The value of a man to God, the priceGod puts on human souls, the price of bloodAnd pain paid out in coin of Calvary.And in that blazing light of Love he sawThe sin of slavery, the sin supreme,That slays the world because it values lifeAs death, and dares to use as mere machinesFor pleasure or for profit, living men.This blasphemy against the Holy Ghost,Which, neither in this world nor in the next,Can find forgiveness in the heart of God,Who only knows the value of a man,He saw it with the eyes of Christ, and spokeIn all unconscious prophecy, the doomOf slavery, which these same blue-eyed boysWould one day die to banish from the world.And I have seen them die in these last days,Yes, I have seen their bright blue eyes grow dimWith agony, yet never lose their smile,The dauntless smile of Angles that revealsTheir angel souls, and crowns them Kings by right,The destined saviours of the world from sin,And from the curse of tyranny which killsThe souls of men, and turns them into slaves.Yes, I have seen them smile at death, and known,By instinct of sure prophecy, the Truth,That seas of dead tyrannic force would breakIn vain against the rock of British hearts,Whereon the love of freedom sits enthroned.This have I known, and have with tears rejoiced,Until there shivered through me like the sudden chillOf death, the fear lest gold be strong where steelIs weak and helpless, lest those who can'tBe conquered may be bought and sold for gain.The day of tyrant kings is dead and thronesShall nevermore dethrone men's souls. But nowA dull inhuman monster takes their place.The minotaur of Mammon tears the wingsFrom fluttering souls and flings them bleedingTo dogs of greed and lust. To him they areDead hands, machines that make machines, and grindOut gold to swell the coffers of the rich.They have no right to fly, their wings are bestCut short, that so their hands may be more strongTo work, make wealth, build up the State, and setThe Commonwealth on sure foundations, madeOf gold and silver and of precious stones.To him a man is of less value thanA beast of burden, for the beast must needsBe bought for gold, and if he dies be boughtAgain, but men need not be bought; they areMachines for hire that can be scrapped at will,And new ones hired with no fresh cost at all,Because they die or weaken in their work.Supply is plentiful and men are drugsUpon the crowded markets of the world.So Satan takes new forms and when he findsThe sword is weak, too weak to win brave heartsAs slaves, creeps snakelike in in time of PeaceTo fetter free-born men with golden chainsAnd lead them helpless captives down to hell.0 England, when this wave of war is spent,And rolls back baffled from thy rocky breast,Wilt thou be strong to slay the Minotaur,And strangle that great golden snake that creptIn time of Peace about thy home to kill,With venom of low greed and lust of wealth,The soul of Freedom and the heart of Love ?Shall wealth still grow and woe increase to breedIn filthy slums the slaves of poverty ?Shall senseless pride and vulgar luxuryBy gilding over evil make it good ?Shall souls be only hands again, dead hands,That toil for wealth that makes none rich save thoseWho need it not ? Shall men still seek in drinkA refuge from the burden of their strife,And from that dull monotony of greyThat shadows half our cities from the sun ?Shall women still be bought and sold like dogsUpon the streets because the wage they earnBy work will not keep bodies for their souls ?Shall children come to birth, too weak to live,Not even hands of strength, but feeble hands,That clutch at life and die—just born to dieAnd cry—cry shame upon the grimy worldThat murdered them ? If this be what must come,Then Blessed are the dead who die in war,Their bodies shattered but their souls untouchedBy slime of sin, unpoisoned by the snake.For war is kinder than a Godless peace.O England, let this message from the pastBing down the ages like a trumpet call,Not Angles these but Angels, souls not slaves.Let Thy wealth be counted not in sov'reignsBut in souls—men and women strong in mindAnd body, in children's love and laughterAnd in those happy aged ones who standBetween the seas of life, and, looking backAnd forwards, vow that human life is good.So must our land be reckoned rich or poor